This hunt for the house has been telling for me. It has told me that instinct is alive and well that the spirit whispers loud and clear. We've walked through at least twenty homes, I've looked at hundreds on the Internet, we've done maybe fifty "drive-bys", fell in love with three, and put an offer on two. A rhythm is beginning to form. We choose homes that fulfill all our "bullet points". Then we go for an in person check (sometimes this step is proceeded by first driving to the listing to see if the "neighborhood feel" rules it out). We follow all the steps and check all the boxes. We discuss, we pray, we plan. But, I always know as soon as I step in the door of a home, whether or not it is a home meant to house me, Dr. Gooch, and our four children. It can be the ideal home, in the perfect spot with the highest scoring school district and all the right rooms, acreage, and HOA comps...but if I can't see in my mind's eye, my little ones running through the kitchen while the Doctor mows the lawn, the baby goos up the back door window, and I put the pasta on to boil...well, then I truly struggle with tying my family up in a mortgage for the place. I realize I may be driving someone crazy: my realtor, my husband (who LOVES house-hunting) and everyone who frequently asks, "Have you found a house?" But, I can't compromise. I'm highly affected by my surroundings. I was conditioned to be this way from childhood, I think, raised by aesthetically minded people in this house.
But, if the Mama's not content, the world cannot be either. So, we're checking on the schools, and timing the commute (oh, and making sure the smoke-smell is taken care of) from this 1950s Cape Cod with all it's charm and garden glory. Oh, and stashing away some cash quickly for earnest money...Just in case we are earnest about this one.
Dr. Gooch hopes they throw in the vintage Firebird in the garage. I'm just hoping for a home.